


La Vie En Rose

by happybeans



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/F, I finally get to use the rare pair tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:27:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27817507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happybeans/pseuds/happybeans
Summary: Karen stops by the bar after work and falls in love with the gorgeous bartender.
Relationships: Karen Page/Marci Stahl
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	La Vie En Rose

**Author's Note:**

> My first time writing Karen, and my first time writing F/F, let's get it, gang.
> 
> Big thanks to my buddy [Drew](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hxcpanda) who suggested the name of the bar in this story, which also became the title :D

Karen huddles her face further into the scarf wrapped around her neck, clenching her teeth so they’ll quit chattering in the October breeze. She’s just left work for the night, long after the sun has sunk down below the city. She just finished editing a big story that she’s hoping might be her break, and she thinks she’s earned a drink. Multiple, even. Many drinks. Yes.

She shivers and pulls her coat closer to her, hands shoved deep into her pockets, one hand fiddling with her pepper spray and the other held over her phone, hoping to conserve whatever small percentage of battery life remains in it.

She looks up when she hears laughing voices appear, exiting La Vie En Rose, one of the nicer bars in the neighborhood. She should keep walking, she knows; the two people leaving are still in their suits, and the bar’s reputation precedes it: this place is nice, and more than that, this place is expensive. She should keep walking, should go to her usual place, which really is only a couple blocks away.

But she feels the heat from the open door as she walks past, and she can’t resist doubling back, entering the reds and dark oranges and wooden walls of La Vie, walking over so she can take a seat on a metal bar stool across from a couple of older women, beneath Edison lights, and in front of a long mirrored wall with expensive liquors in front of it.

She hooks her purse around her legs, peels off her winter coat, and situates herself, face turned down towards the table as she pushes her hands against the chair to scoot back, and when she looks up, she sees her, and the sound around her cuts out.

Long blonde hair that curls out like ocean waves, red lipstick and dark eyeshadow, and a cat-eye that puts Karen’s own attempts to shame: Karen’s drowning in the woman in front of her, the bartender who looks like she can’t be over 30, who stands in front of her with one sharply-plucked eyebrow arched.

“Hey,” the goddess of a bartender says, and her voice is simultaneously friendly and distant, warm and cold, familiar and unique—and with one word, Karen can’t get enough. “I haven’t seen you around before.”

Karen nods. She subtly tries to clear her throat, but her voice still comes out thick as she says, “Yeah. Thought I would check the place out.”

She tilts her head then shrugs. “Do you know what you want?”

 _Yeah, you._ Karen orders something impressive, something that’s going to taste terrible and will cost more than two drinks at her usual bar, but when the bartender nods approvingly and turns around to make the drink, Karen knows she’s made the right choice.

Well, it’s the choice she’s going with, so it doesn’t matter much either way.

The bar is fairly empty, though that’s not too surprising considering it’s a weeknight. Karen sits at one end of the bar in her pencil skirt and butterfly sleeves, the older women at the other end of the bar are laughing in their own work attire, and a couple of gentleman in the middle wear finely-pressed suits as they converse over Manhattan’s. Five people in the bar—plus Aphrodite across the counter.

Karen runs a hand through her hair and pretends to inspect the wall to her right when the bartender starts walking back with her drink then looks up as though surprised to see her there when she slides the drink across the counter.

“Here you are,” she says.

“Thank you.”

Karen pulls the amber-gold drink closer to herself, ignoring the goosebumps that pop up along the skin of her arms as the cold from the glass seeps into her hand. She expects that to be the end of the transaction until it’s time to receive her bill.

Instead, the woman says, “My name’s Marci, by the way.”

Karen looks up, meeting Marci’s eyes and taking in her smile. It’s small, more of a smirk than a friendly smile.

“That’s a beautiful name,” Karen says, and even she’s surprised when her voice comes out steady instead of star-struck. "I'm Karen."

Marci’s smile-smirk grows just barely. “I feel like I should make a joke.”

Karen breathes a laugh. “I get that a lot these days. Go for it.”

Marci laughs now, too, and her teeth look like they belong in one of those booklets the dentist hands out. “That’s okay,” she says, and she shifts her stance, pushing one hand out to rest on the counter to the side of her. “I think Karen’s a nice name, too.”

She takes the compliment and racks her brain for something to say next. A good reporter is able to think on her feet, so she says: “It was my grandmother’s name.”

It was not her grandmother’s name.

“Oh?” Marci says. “She must be wonderful.”

“She was,” Karen says, even though her one grandmother died before she was born and the other, she knew for maybe five years of her life. Eager to change the topic, she says, “This is a nice place. Have you worked here for long?”

Marci nods, face slipping back to a pleasant neutral, signaling that this is a familiar topic for her. “Five years, now.”

“You must be quite good,” Karen remarks, and Marci winks.

“I like to think so. What do you do for work? I love that top, by the way.”

Karen removes her right hand from her glass and plays with the ruffles of her left sleeve, turning her face down and to the side momentarily to hide her blush as she rambles, “Thanks! It was on sale.” Rather than face-palming, she moves on, “And I’m a reporter.”

“We love a deal,” Marci says, and it sounds equal parts mocking and relating, so Karen can’t tell which it is. “A reporter? Where do you work?”

“The Bulletin,” Karen tells her, and Marci’s eyebrows lift as she seems to recognize the name. “Been there for about a year, now.”

Marci opens her mouth to say something, but she looks at the bar behind her and pulls away. She turns back to Karen to say, “Be right back,” before moving to talk with the two gentlemen at the middle of the bar, making them fresh drinks.

Karen lets out a breath and pulls her phone out of her coat pocket. She doesn’t have any notifications, so she spends a minute or two flipping between apps. She rereads a list of article ideas she has written in her notes, types then untypes a new one that she thinks could work out or could be stupid, then reopens Candy Crush for the first time in months. She’s been stuck on this level for nearly a year now, meaning she’s usually not particularly eager to give it another go.

While she fails the level, the women from the other end of the bar take their leave, laughing to themselves as they walk past Karen then out the door, letting in a fwoosh of cold air.

She’s just starting up the next game when Marci suddenly speaks from in front of her: “So, what do you really want to drink?”

Karen looks up quickly, and her phone slips from her hand onto the counter. “What?”

Marci smirks then looks down at Karen’s glass. “Change your mind?”

After pushing her phone to the side, clicking the button to lock it along the way, Karen reaches to hold the glass with one hand. “No, it looks good,” she lies.

“Ha.” Marci holds out a hand, closing her fingers in and out in a “gimme” motion. “Alright, hand it over.”

“No, really, it’s fine,” Karen insists, but Marci rolls her eyes and says:

“I’m not going to let you suffer just because you remembered the drink wrong. Give it.”

Karen lets go of the glass, lying, “Okay, fine: that’s exactly what happened.” Better than admitting she ordered pure alcohol fumes to impress a girl she doesn’t even know.

Marci’s head tilts up, and she looks pleased. She takes the glass and lifts it from the counter then says, “Do you have any requests, or am I going off assumptions alone?”

“You’re making assumptions about me?” Karen asks.

Ever-present smirk growing, Marci says, “Some,” and she winks with it. “You seem fruity.”

Karen can’t help the burst of laughter that leaves her. She can’t tell if Marci _knows_ or if she’s just talking about drinks still, so she says, “Is that a good thing?”

“A very good thing,” Marci says, and she turns around to start making Karen’s drink.

Karen pretends she isn’t watching, picking up her phone to check the time—then forgetting the time a moment after—then looking over her nail polish. She painted her nails just last night, but they’re already chipped in a couple of spots, a fact which is both frustrating and somewhat embarrassing when she’s in the presence of somebody so well put-together.

She feels the need to clarify: she does realize how ridiculous she is being tonight.

Look, being single gets to a person after a while, and as Karen thinks back to her last relationship a whopping two years ago… Yeah. She can’t really berate herself too harshly for this one. In fact…

She looks up, and, to her surprise, finds Marci looking over at her.

Marci winks then looks back down at the drink she’s mixing, and Karen bites the inside of her cheek.

She straightens up on her stool and runs a hand through her hair. She’s being silly, yes, but it’s not because she’s appreciating the beauty of the woman in front of her: it’s because she’s been denying her own.

As Marci turns and starts walking back with her drink, Karen makes her decision.

She gives Marci a wink of her own.


End file.
